


does your husband know the way that the sunshine gleams from your wedding band?

by UndergroundValentine



Series: Where Soul Meets Body [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Couple Drama, Drinking, F/M, Force Bond, Gift Fic, Gift Giving, Implied Force bond, In which Rey is probably the most emotionally mature of everyone involved, Indecent Proposal!Au, Kissing, Lots of emotional stuff, Lots of inner monologuing from Kylo Ren, Lots of plot and like no porn, Masturbation, Part one was all the sex and now part two is all the drama that follows, Please forgive me for the overwhelming lack of sex, Probably part three, Romantic Tension, Sexual Obsession, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, There may be more sex in the future because maybe part three???, Unresolved Sexual Tension, because fuck you that's why, prompt from movie - Indecent Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundValentine/pseuds/UndergroundValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he collects himself with a slow breath, adding steel to his brick-by-brick mask, and ignores that quiet count of twenty-four… twenty-five…twenty-six in the back of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	does your husband know the way that the sunshine gleams from your wedding band?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [t0bemadeofglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0bemadeofglass/gifts).



> ((Putting this at the top since this is now an issue: if Anon - KinkyPeters from wattpad happens to be scrolling through once again after stealing my shit sometime in January of 2018: go fuck yourself! :D))
> 
> HoLY FUCK
> 
> So hey, happy May Fourth ;D
> 
> I'm not one hundred percent sure how long this one took me to write. I don't remember exactly when I started, but hey I finished sooner than I anticipated (and it's just shy of the same word count as part one)! Also I'M SORRY THERE'S LIKE NO SEX. BUT ALSO I'M NOT. :D
> 
> This was, admittedly, WAY harder to write (also because I suck at writing anything involving business, because I am not a business-y person, why do I keep doing this to myself I really need to stop). The emotional bullshit of everything is just aksld;glajsdl so I really? hope? you? like? it????
> 
> There will probably be a part three. Probably. 
> 
> Also, like last time, this is gifted to t0bemadeofglass, because this all started with her, and she's been through this ride with me and made sure everything was A-okay good enough, so that's wonderful. Also she's wonderful. Please love her. <3 Because I love her. 
> 
> And I made aesthetics! If you want, check 'em out!  
> http://undergroundvalentine.tumblr.com/post/142772994541/he-avoids-the-table-beside-the-window-the-candle  
> http://undergroundvalentine.tumblr.com/post/143001510241/he-shouts-her-name-into-the-dark-possessed-by-a  
> http://undergroundvalentine.tumblr.com/post/143602934066/i-dont-just-want-to-be-a-footnote-in-someone  
> http://undergroundvalentine.tumblr.com/post/143807540026/and-he-feels-warm-comfortable-the-blanket-of
> 
> Again, as always. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are wonderful, and you make this wonderful for me. I love you. A lot. <3

He doesn’t intentionally count the days, often willing himself to think of _anything_ else, but they’re notched into the recesses of his subconscious, tucked away with meeting reminders, the grocery list he has yet to fulfill, and the memory of her lips on his tongue.

They tick with the hands of the clock, vibrate beneath the cool side of his pillow during sleepless nights, ringing in each morning heavier than church bells.  He soothes the ache in his bones with hot showers in the guest bathroom, away from his own tile and skylight. 

Half of the windows of his apartment are shaded, closed up and denying the grey mist and dawn light of the port beyond the city.  He finds that, for how frequently he drags himself from bed so early, that the sight of the clouded sea only twists him further into the knots that have long since lingered from her fingertips.

He avoids the table beside the window, the candle still perched in the center, half burnt with wax dripping down its sides.  The corner of the marble countertop bears her ghost, and sometimes, when his mind wanders too far from the place in his heart where he keeps that night, he can still see her legs, the lace, the heaviness of her brown eyes blown black with lust and—

And her pearls are still at his bedside where she’d left them.

And the days and weeks begin to stack higher and higher, unwavering and cruel in their construction; sometimes he thinks he’s doing this to himself out of spite.  For what, he cannot say, even as he grits his teeth and burrows his knuckles into the sockets until the corners sting and his throat burns from repressing an aching, dissatisfied wail.

He reminds himself, more times than he cares to confess to, of their arrangement, their deal.  It was one night, and while she had made mention of convincing her husband to consider his offer, there was no guarantee.  There were no promises, even if he can still see her compassionate smile, her assurance of _We’ll see each other, soon_ —nothing was certain.  Nothing is certain. 

So he collects himself with a slow breath, adding steel to his brick-by-brick mask, and ignores that quiet count of _twenty-four… twenty-five…twenty-six_ in the back of his mind.

 

* * *

 

It’s a cool spring morning, with pale yellow and tangerine light filtering in through the window at the back of his office.  It spreads and fans out across his desk, the leather chairs, the bulletin boards and fake plants that flank the glass door.  There are black and white photos of the city’s lights and architecture dotting the walls, metallic sculptures collecting a film of dust on the shelves nearby.  But they still glimmer and gleam, reflecting the beams better than water.

He's staring through the window down at the sprawling city, watching cars weave in and out from one another, specks of color and black moving like ants to and from business and pleasure.  Towering structures of steel and glass glitter in the morning, with their shadows casting cool shade on smaller shops and parks.  The distant port sparkles blue and green, and he can smell the salt of the sea as the door clicks and creaks open behind him.

Swallowing slowly, he removes his hands from his pockets, smoothing the front of his suit jacket before turning.  Platinum blonde and stoic, his associate Phasma is easing the door open, allowing his two guests to enter the room with ease.  He smiles, thanking her quietly, begging the thrumming beneath his chest to ease as he shifts his gaze across the room.

Of course, he sees _her_ first, with her rich brown hair pulled back into a bun, her warm eyes dusted modestly in charcoal and black.  There’s a shimmer of red over her lips, a grey blouse with a low scoop-neck clinging lightly to her lithe frame, trousers hugging her hips.  He reserves his smile to a brimming politeness, even if his gaze falters on her throat, her collarbones, the curve of her breast.

He feels his heart rap beneath his skin to the beat of her footsteps against the hardwood of his office, and for a moment he sees her in his loft, in black and pearl and candlelight.

Blinking slowly, he tears his gaze away even long after being caught by her eyes.  Beside her, her husband is dressed simply, a business-casual mock-up of heavy black trousers, a neat button up, and a grey blazer a handful of shades darker than Rey’s top.  His expression is guarded and cold, one of his hands coming almost immediately to Rey’s back.

“Good morning,” Ren tells them, motioning for them to sit in the seats provided across his desk.  He waits until they’re seated, before sinking into his own chair, folding his hands onto the open surface.  “I trust you’ve made quick work of depositing your funds?”  He knows this answer already, but asks to clear the silence of the room.

“Yes,” Rey says at once, laying a thick folder flat onto her lap, her fingers laced together over it.  Her voice is music, and he swallows a sigh.  “We were able to retain enough in our accounts to avoid any fees while the bank finalized the processing.  Though, it certainly did raise a few questions as far as our sudden shift in wealth was concerned.”

He smiles at her, and nods slowly.  “I can imagine.  Were there any assets, or particular items of interest that you’ve yet to retrieve?  I’m sure I can make some deal with Hux if necessary.”

“No,” Ren turns to her husband, eyeing him slowly as he shifts in his seat.  “Most everything in the shop was just equipment, parts.  Replaceable pieces.  We weren’t stupid enough to throw in plans or anything like that.”

“I never suggested you were,” Ren muses with a cheeky grin that pulls at the corner of his mouth, “but I’m glad to hear it anyway.”

There’s a beat, a hesitation that filters its way across the top of his desk, and Ren dares to steal another glance at her before quietly clearing his throat.  His fingers come and smooth over the front of his tie, and he tosses a wave of hair from his face.

“I’m sure Rey mentioned that my offer stood more as guidance than anything else,” he says slowly, gesturing loosely into the air with a hand.  “You two clearly have a good sense for business, and getting started, so you won’t need any hand-holding from me.”

“We’re fast learners,” the man cuts in, and Ren smiles only in mouth.

“I’m sure.  Still, running a business— _any_ business, is not easy.  Someone like Hux would have you operating like an empire, hardened as steel, and just as cold.  But you’re running a shop—repairs and design.  That offers something a little friendlier, more charming.  You know the basics, but your next focus should be expanding your reputation and presence.”

“We were hoping to bring in more hands,” Rey admits with a nod.  “Ideally, with the newfound gain in funding, we can open with a bigger shop.  I have a few good friends I trust who know the work and the demands.  They’d be valuable in getting everything started while we set up the technical details.”

Ren offers her another smile, feeling pride swelling in his gut. 

“So what does this mean for you, then?”  Her husband clips, and Ren glances briefly at him.

“By all accounts, our original deal is done,” he marks the finality of it, ignoring the way his heart trembles between his lungs.  “However, we can choose to make this akin to a partnership.  First Order operates on many levels, and we are known to provide insurance to businesses such as yourself.  Additionally, we can contribute assistance with the growth of your company, grant you access to connections for parts, labor, chain expansion, et cetera.  In exchange, a small portion of your yearly revenue will come back to us, to further ensure we can continue to deliver adequate benefits.  If this isn’t what you’re looking for, we can end it all here.”

There is a moment of silence that passes, and Ren watches with bated breath as Rey gives her husband a pointed look.  A brief interlude of twitched mouths and furrowed brows leaves him believing that their relationship lingers upon a deep and profound intellectual bond, and he ignores the hot, acidic churning in the base of his gut.  Looking between them, he can see caution in her husband’s eyes, a clench in the chiseled jawline that tightens with a breath, and relaxes under a sigh.

It’s Rey who looks to him first, a careful smile pulling at her lips.  Ren wills his gaze to fix itself upon her own, and not at the dimple that presses into her cheek, or the dusted freckles across the top of her nose.  His tie feels hot and warm at his throat, and he pulls it gently with his fingers as Rey flattens her hands over the folder on her lap, sinking back into her chair.

“A partnership,” she says quietly, cocking an eyebrow, and for all that he can muster for himself, Ren swallows a thick breath of infatuation.  “We’ll have access to top resources and connections, as well as your guidance, in exchange for a portion of profits.”

“The official contract will be much more thorough as far as legal technicalities are concerned, but yes.  A partnership.”  Her smile wrangles his insides, and his fingers press and twist around the buttons of his blazer. 

“You have a deal, Ren,” Rey breathes, and even in the calculated articulation of his surname, there’s a lilt to the ending consonant that seizes his throat, like her fingers are there, teasing and testing him.  He forces a guarded smile, hoping that what light filters in through the window behind him does not betray his pride or affection. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ren offers, bowing his head with a smile.  “The official contract of our business will be short, but it is still a rather monotonous process.  We can begin today, if you’ve the time, or we can schedule another appointment?”

He looks more to Rey than her husband, and this earns a shift in the corner of his eye, and a disgruntled breath.

“We can just do it now,” the man says, the tension in his jaw cutting its way into his temple.  Ren gives him a courteous smile, and a nod.

“Very well,” he says, pulling a few files from his desk drawer.  “Let’s begin.”

 

* * *

 

He’d learned from what could have been considered a terrifyingly young age of the power and prestige that political prowess holds.  Having grown into a world and culture of guile and charm so sickening-sweet that it leaves an ache deeper than your soul, Ren delights himself on having developed his own etiquette and means of staying at least three steps ahead of everyone he has and will ever work with. 

The science of it, he’d discovered once, so long ago it seems, was and remains basic in its principles, carefully constructed yet marginally malleable to new generations of thinking.  Power could have been described as a combination of social and economic capital, a collection of presence and worth so rarely attained by many, but certainly perfected by a fair few.   Perhaps, should he consider an implicit addition to the equation of power—whether in business, politics, or cultural influence—is the near necessity of strong, established relationships.

He's hardly naïve, even if his mother often chides his lingering boyish tendencies and recreational habits.  He knows maintaining the right connections, fostering the pathways for resource and gain, is critical to the survival of both businesses, and power.  He’s learned from the very best of the tools of the trade to identify those he can trust, and those he cannot.

Perhaps, though, as he’s come to see the unending transformation of this partnership—the physical shop taking form and exploding into something he’s uncertain he could have ever before imagined, the development and shift of Rey’s expertise in her craft to her new title as a _business owner_ —Ren must atone to the reality that he has severely _underestimated_ their circumstances.

They are little more than a month into their new arrangement, with contracts signed, sealed, and already collecting dust in their respective security, and Ren is loath to admit that his mind is just as foolish as his heart.  He’d suspected—truly, he may have known entirely—that there would be contention regarding the development of the shop’s business, the strength and reach of his guidance and counsel, and what his new partners were willing to do to achieve their ends.  Rey, herself, had once confessed to being stubborn, and her husband even more so.  And that memory, with the wine like a shadow on his lip, still warms him, even as he shakes his head and bites his tongue. 

He’s hardly prepared for what may yet lay ahead, so baffled as he is now with all that has already transpired.

Rey, Ren has become acutely aware in this passing time, is not a woman who begs, or barters, when it comes to her work.  She doesn’t bat her eyelashes to get her way, or sugarcoat her words when speaking to anyone who could be conceived as “above” her.  She _demands_ the respect of everyone around her, with a full and unwavering rush of calculated needs, and a vision that expands the shop space she and her husband have designated and designed. 

She is fair, though, and kind, to those she employs for its construction, often getting into the dirt and grime of it all herself—whether to lighten their loads, or because she deems it fun, Ren might consider that there are truths to both sides.  He learns that she takes pride in this, uncaring if her nail-beds and palms become wrecked or coarse, or if she ends up wearing more oil than most others in her company.  He had resigned himself to leave that work to her, unfamiliar in the realm of tools and sparks, even if it meant he could not admire her sweat stained shirts or determined snarl of effort.

Rey takes advantage of the freedom he provides her, handpicking every facet of aesthetic and machinery, and Ren pulls many strings with delicate promises and favors in order to secure them for her.  And even if he tells her none of this, none of the costs or debts he’s piling up in the back cabinet of his office, there is a knowing mask she wears in his presence when the shipments come.  He often watches her spend laborious amounts of time becoming intimately familiar with the pieces she orders, her nimble hands cradling each nut, bolt, screw, plate, and wire as though they were her children.

He tries not to remember the way those hands cradled him.

Even if she may know, her husband seems otherwise oblivious—or, perhaps, he simply doesn’t care—to the lengths Ren goes for them.  Indeed, he is not quite so attached, even if his investment in the shop remains unchallenged, to the individual components so much as he is for his assigned space.  He operates within an air of absolute perfectionism that is strikingly different from Rey’s, and Ren is certain he’s never seen two people work so differently with independence, yet somehow come together as a team.

Slowly, surely, and with much of her own sweat and satisfaction poured into it, the shop takes shape and forms, and Ren rewards her and her husband with a grand opening.  Between the community she’s built among their employees and friends, and the attached First Order iconography in the corner of the glass door, they are almost at once overwhelmed with clientele.  The party itself for the shop’s first day leaves Rey with tears in her eyes.

And maybe she suspects that he has, yet again, extended his reach for her, having had a hand in the sudden flurry of requests and clients.  Ren knows, were she ever to ask, that he would resign himself to shrug, offer a careful smile, and make some passing remark that, even if it were true, it benefits them both. 

And, maybe, she would know, were she to ask at all, that such a response would not be entirely truthful.

That, however, doesn’t stop him from catching her eye, once, amidst a sea of friends and strangers, when she becomes so lost that she doesn’t realize he’s staring back.  She doesn’t need to say it, or acknowledge anything, because he feels that thrum in his soul that reminds him of the pressure of her fingers against his scars, the delicacy in how she held him together when he reads her.  And when she blinks, there’s another moment where she lingers, knowing, with a trace of a smile before she turns away.

He tells himself that it’s enough.  For now.

Much as he would like to dwell on it, to let himself sink and simmer in its warmth, he cannot.  He only has a moment to sip from his flute before his thoughts are forced to scatter.

“What is it you think you’re achieving?”

The edge bears Hux’s typical snide, crinkled tone of distaste, but Ren can hear a fine layer of genuine curiosity.  He turns from the crowd, from Rey, regarding his counterpart with a raised brow and a steady gaze.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“The girl, her husband, the shop.  All the resources you’ve poured into them,” Hux continues, folding his hands behind his back.  The lines of his suit pull, forming across his shoulders and chest, dark like smoke.  Ren tilts his head, pursing his mouth.

“We established a partnership.  I’m fulfilling my end by acquiring the materials and means that they ask for.  In return, we will receive profit from them.”

Hux isn’t convinced, his icy eyes narrowing as the sharp lines in his jaw harden further.

“Snoke has been asking about the expenses.  When can we expect a return on them?”

Sighing softly, Ren dips his head back and finishes the rest of his champagne.  There’s a tug in his soul, a quiet need to look over his shoulder.  Suppressing it with a clench of his jaw, he swallows and fixes his stare on the ginger.

“Soon.  They’ve just opened, allow them time to accumulate their gains.  Perhaps Snoke should reconsider his practices if he’s going to be questioning the ratio of expense to income on a business that’s just started.”

“Have care, Ren,” Hux chides, eyeing him dangerously.  Ren swallows, raising his brow once more, breathing deeply.  “You would do well to remember your place, and keep your affairs in check.”

There’s isn’t enough room for another breath or word, for Hux stomps off, thumping so hard against Ren’s shoulder that, were he to still have a drink, it would have sloshed.  Sighing deeply, Ren straightens and smooths the front of his coat, setting the empty flute down on a nearby table to free his hands. 

He has half a mind to follow Hux, to chastise him for being reprimanded in such a way in front of their guests and partners, but another figure looms into view, clutching a drink and bearing a poorly masked scowl.  Inhaling deeply, Ren offers a fair, polite smile and a nod, steeling his shredding patience with what little strength he can.

“I suppose I should thank you, for all this,” the words are clipped, teetering on something that sounds like embarrassment, but Ren waves him off.

“It’s nothing.  This shops means much to you, and you’ve put in a lot of effort in the last month.  The least I could do was give you a grand opening.”

The man huffs quietly, taking a hefty swallow from his glass.  By its smell, it’s strong, and it makes Ren’s nose tingle.

“It’s nice,” he says simply, and Ren stifles the urge to gag.  “She’s happy.  Elated, really.”

And he knows precisely where she is in the crowd, without even needing to peer around those of her friends that have swarmed to congratulate her successes.  He can hear her laughter ringing over the dull roar of the other patrons, can see her beaming with pride.  Ren stifles the way his heart kicks into his ribs with a slow sigh.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ren breathes, sliding his hands into his pockets.  Beside him, Rey’s husband shifts, pressing the rim of his cup once more to his mouth as though swallowing something hard and bitter will make him any better than he was before.  Perhaps Ren would pity him, if not for the pull his heart makes when he meets her eye across the way.

“Anyway, I guess I just…  Wanted to say thank you,” Rey’s husband mumbles, moving his drink-hand erratically.  Ren shifts away in time to avoid a small mouthful tipping over the rim.

“There’s no need, but I appreciate your gratitude.”  He means for it to be the end, to turn and walk away and mingle further.  He has just as many people to thank as he has to be thanked by, and this half-drunk excuse of a man is only impeding on those plans.

Ren begins to leave when a hand snaps and coils around his arm.  He stops suddenly, flashing a wide-eyed stare and a curled lip, before swallowing his pride.  Trembling fingers slowly go lax, before falling away from him all together.

The mouth opens as though to speak, but nothing comes, and Ren shakes his head.

“What?”  He chides, negating polite pretense with unbridled irritation.

The man swallows whatever he might have said with another toss of his head, more of his drink dribbling down his chin than into his mouth, and Ren hears a quiet _Nothing_.

 

* * *

 

He trips and falters against his own weak will, and makes the mistake of crawling into bed with her pearls clenched lightly between his fingers.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Ren gnaws the inside of his lip, breathing as deeply as his stuttering core will allow.  Tension and heat coil in his hips, and he sees her eyes and her lips, the way she had curved off his sheets with her legs pressing the life from him.  His free hand has already slipped beneath the fabric of his briefs, skimming and stroking gently as the heat and ache shifts from his bones and soul to his cock.  He pants against one of the beads, tracing its edge with his tongue.

Arching off the bed, Ren digs his heels into the mattress, no grace or gentility in the pace of his strokes, twisting and tightening his grip as he tells himself that there are no traces of her perfume against the chain, that it’s his wrecked imagination.  But it’s decadent and subtle, and it sends a flurry of tingling spasms along his throat and back, the memory of her teeth and nails sinking into him like poison.  He bites his tongue, tasting the wine, the reddened fruit buried beneath, before the metallic sting of blood cuts the illusion.

He shouts her name into the dark, possessed by a ghost in black lace that hovers in the atmosphere beside him.  Its wispy fingers caress his trembling limbs, before seizing him head to toe, and diving into his bones.  He thinks he hears her voice, and drapes her pearls against his heart.

 

* * *

 

The second and third months prove to be just as blindingly promising as the first, the turning heat of the summer only bringing in new prospects.  The opening of Rey’s shop had been momentous in its own right, but the business she and her husband conduct has kept the stampede rolling, and Ren often finds himself beaming with pride and admiration for her at every detail. 

She has lived up to everything he could have imagined, he tells himself, thumbing through the designated folder he has for her.  He remembers the night at the casino, having watched her and her husband gamble and place everything into a few lucky rolls, only to lose it.  Their eyes had been alight with a fire that burned hot until it flared and consumed them, the ashes of their dreams billowing like waves across a sea of green and mahogany.

And her husband had collapsed almost at once, the grief so pure on his face.  But Rey—oh, Ren remembers, with a stoked fondness warming his center as his fingers trail over the delicate sweep of her signature on the contract—could not be so easily defeated.  The disbelief, the horror, the shock of the moment was real and true.  But she was made of something far stronger, her façade hardening from cool ivory to glimmering steel, a different maelstrom churning the very air around her as though she commanded some kind of second plane of existence. 

Indeed, it had been that moment that pushed him forward, that had placed his pen to check and his shadow into the light, his gaze to hers.  She had straightened, sized him up, and the touch of his fingers against hers had put a darkness into her mask.

Sliding the files back into place, Ren filters through the newest stack that graces his desk, skimming the collected financial accounts, the production input and output, the expenses for the store and the revenue garnered.  So early into their business, everything is calculated every other week and sent for review, the numbers projecting promising results. 

Smiling to himself, Ren makes note of these, before closing up the files to tuck them away. 

 

* * *

 

He decides to stop by the shop on a warm afternoon in the middle of the week.  Sun streams through the massive open windows, cascading beams of light across the rich wood floor of the front lobby.  There are leather chairs and couches to create a quaint seating area, a large flat television on a nearby wall displaying a documentary on engineering.  A large desk is tucked into the corner, momentarily vacated, with a computer and a phone.

There are two doors on opposite walls, each marked with names and titles in subscript, before the far wall stands with a pair of massive glass doors to offer a brief glimpse into the workspace beyond.  He can see cars, parts, massive pieces of machinery and smaller tools, and steps slowly to look closer as the door to his left opens, and she steps out of her office.

“Ren,” she says with a warm smile, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Nothing, just stopping by,” he offers, ignoring the swell in his heart.  “Thought I would see how business is for you.”

“Shouldn’t you already know that answer?”  There’s a coy smirk playing at her lips, mimicked by the glint in her eye, and Ren chuckles quietly, swallowing the heat in his throat.

“Numbers are only partially reflective of conduct.”  It’s true, but the way her expression stays, firm if not deepening, is only indicative of how easily she reads him.

“I suppose that’s fair, however vague it is,” Rey admits, her gaze narrowing some, before brushing her door open wider.  “Come inside?”

She offers it like a question, as if he could or would ever refuse her.

Nodding once, Ren follows her, taking a seat across from her work space as she leaves her office door open before returning to her own place.  She is dressed in form fitting jeans and a loosely buttoned flannel, her hair pulled back into a relaxed, low pony tail.  She is hardly as painted or pristine here as he has seen before, but she demands his attention, and he sighs faintly.

“How are things, really?”

Rey smiles, sinking into her chair as she reaches up and tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

“Great, actually,” she breathes, grinning faintly.  “We’ve got a steady stream of regular clients, getting new people each week.  We just started working on some custom pieces, too, for display and sale.  We’re looking to do some internship programs with a few of the academies, but we’ll need to build a bigger, credible reputation before that happens.”

“But you have bigger plans, and that’s what I like to hear,” Ren offers.  Rey chuckles quietly, nodding once.

“Well, I have plans anyway.  My husband is quite content to design and repair.  Doesn’t seem to want to jump too deep.  I can’t blame him, we’re just starting after all, and he wants to be comfortable, first, in what we’re doing.”

“But you want to see the grand picture,” Ren offers, and Rey’s eyes shift to meet his, rich and bright.  “You see what it all could be, and he wants to focus on one piece at a time.”

“Yes,” she breathes, her shoulders sinking some as she leans further back into her seat.  For a moment she lets her head rest against the back of it, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, and Ren clenches his jaw as his eyes follow the line of her throat.  “Stars, he’s a good man, and has a vision, but it’s so small sometimes.  I’m just as guilty of wanting to examine the finer details, get into the grit, but I know when to step back and see… _everything_.”

He thinks of her fingers on his birthmarks, and her lips on his scars, and he shifts in his seat.

“You’re right to have a larger vision.  Keeping an open, broad perspective helps maintain an ultimate goal, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  Not that focusing on one aspect at a time is particularly bad, sometimes it’s necessary.”

“But it’s _so_ limiting,” Rey continues, wedging a hand beneath her head.  “As it is, I feel like I don’t have enough time, enough hours in the day.  If I could, I’d stay and work, and work, and—just keep going.  There’s always more to learn.  More to do.”

“Don’t forget to enjoy the little things.”  He tells her.  He sees her face relax, a chuckle escaping her lips.

“I won’t.”  It’s a promise, and something in her tone warms his heart.

“And you, personally?  How are _you_?”  He presses, folding his hands together in his lap.  He’s thankful her desk sits higher than his posture as his knuckles stretch white.

Rey blinks slowly, lifting her head to meet his eyes.  And he sees in the depths of her endless stare, behind the dark color and wisdom, a flicker of something that reaches into his core and digs.  It twists and strokes, and Ren swallows thickly as she blinks again, and it vanishes almost immediately.

Almost.

“I’m doing well.  Settling into the pace of everything has been an interesting experience, but I’m not one for slow or monotonous, so it hasn’t been too bad.  I feel like I’m finally doing what I’ve always wanted and dreamed of.  Where I’m at is where I’m meant to be, kind of thing,” he watches her laugh to herself, a strand of her hair tickling her cheek as she shakes her head. 

“You look as if there’s more to say?”

Her gaze softens, and the tone of her voice shifts as she continues, almost as though her words are a secret. 

“It’s a strange feeling, is all—finally doing what I want, being where I want to be.  It’s not one I’m entirely familiar with.”

“But you have felt it before?” 

She breathes, the look in her eyes still impossibly lost. 

“Yeah.”

Ren isn’t sure that she’s aware of it, but her eyes come first to his throat, distant and warm, before fixating briefly on his mouth.  He raises a brow, letting a breath pass between his teeth as his heartbeat pulses so loudly he can feel its tremors in the back of his head. 

“Rey?”  He asks.  Light returns and she meets his gaze, her cheeks warming three shades.

“Ah—nothing, lost my train of thought,” she writes off as she looks away once more, smoothing her hair back before clearing her throat.

“Really?”  He presses. 

She doesn’t say anything, and he tilts his head.  Her focus is locked somewhere to his right, downcast, hiding.

“Rey,” he purrs.  Her mouth opens slightly, a twitch pulsing from her throat.  She brings her elbows to the arms of her chair, her fingers twisting at her wedding ring.

“Please… don’t.”

“Rey,” it’s considerably forceful, quiet under the hush of his breath.  He sits forward in his seat, ignoring the gleam from the overhead light on the gold.  “Look at me.”

“No.”  She tries to be strong, sure, and he sees her frustration scrunching her nose and brows.  Her fingers dig harder.

“Rey.”

There’s a beat, and he thinks he hears her heart falling in step with his own, for all at once he’s overwhelmed with the sound of drums, the syncopation wild and erratic.  Lace filters briefly over his vision, vanishing with a blink as her gaze wavers and lifts to his. 

And he feels warm, comfortable, the blanket of serenity cocooning him and leaving him with the memory of her arms, her fingers caressing his skin, her thighs enveloping him and holding him tight.  And there’s a part of him that has half a mind to stand, to swipe her things chaotically from her desk and have her here, and there’s another that wants to stand and flee because the rhythm of her heart resonates so clearly with his own that he wonders whether they’re two separate things at all.

Ren doesn’t breathe, barely able to think with the film of her lips, the music of her sighs, that wraps him tight, packaged up in the depths of her eyes.  She feels it, too. 

He would have stood, would have walked around and gone to her.  But there is the sound of the front door, and heavy footsteps, and the break in their eye contact severs the bond that glistened between them in white, shimmering light.  A shadow crosses the threshold of her open door, and her husband steps in at once, momentarily losing himself in Ren’s presence.  In his hand is a bag from a sub shop.

“I wasn’t aware we were having company.  I would have bought more food.”

Ren stifles a snort at the lie.

“It’s all right,” Rey says, and her voice sends chills through Ren’s spine.  “Ren was actually just leaving.”

He can barely give her more than a glance before clearing his throat.  He’s not surprised, even if a little chafed at the sudden shift.  But he is not callous, and restrains his pride like a tug on a leash.

“Yes.  I have a meeting back at the office to discuss your six-month review.  I’ll give you a call once I’m ready for you.”  He admits, smoothing the front of his jacket again with the flat of his palm.

Rey offers him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and the pull between her hands leaves him smirking as he stands and turns.  Catching her husband’s stare, he doesn’t bother hiding it as he gives them a parting _Good afternoon_ before walking out.

 

* * *

 

Reoccurring fantasies of aggressively sexual memories leave him panting, wanting, suffocating in the confines of his bedroom, tangled in black satin and cotton.  He hears her moans as clearly as if she were beside him, feels her in his dreams as though she were lying beside him at night.  And it’s maddeningly exhausting, he knows, to wake and be alone, to cry out and release like an adolescent at the image of her that he’s seared into his mind.

He digs his fingers into the grout of the shower, the steam billowing in heavy curtains around his frame as the dawn light filters from the skylight, cool and grey when the summer rolls to its end.  He sees her eyes in his own reflection in the fogged mirror.

His apartment is a sanctum of her pleasure, the walls stained with an essence of her that makes his skin prickle and his bones tremble.  If not for the unending, insatiable fire that perpetually licks and devours him from the inside out each and every night, he’s half convinced he would leave, pack up and find something else.  But he can’t.  He won’t, even as he writhes and bites the corner of his pillow, pretending that his lips are on her skin instead.

There is one night, though, where the tremors are particularly violent, an addiction so thick in his blood that he can hear ringing beneath the chaotic hum of his veins and pulse.  He’s gnawing at the inside of his lip, teeth grating the skin raw until he tastes iron, brows pulling together in a frown as his fingers knead through his hair. 

Consumed, his fingers fumble from the threads and through the dark, pressing at a screen until the garish white of his phone fades to something more comfortable.  He taps it again, before bringing it to his ear.  It’s so late, so dark with the wash of the moon across the city beyond his window, and he swallows the guilt with the stone in his throat, half-expecting just to hear a voicemail.

But it clicks.

He tells himself to hang up.  He doesn’t, though.

“Hello?”  It’s the sleepiness of her tone that shakes his heart, and he’s glad he hit _mute_ first.

“Ren?”  She presses, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose.

What is he doing…

“Kylo?”  Her voice is a damn whisper, and Ren digs the heel of his hand against his groin.  He hears her sigh, faint and tired.  There’s another click, and the call disconnects.

 

* * *

 

It’s a few weeks before he sees her again, and somehow the distance hasn’t made any of this any easier on him.  He had thought—hoped, truly—that once the burning wave of prosperity had quelled that he might find peace.  That, maybe, his soul would calm, and the scars would stop burning, and the memory of her would fade. 

Naturally, as his life cannot exist without complication, this affection that has burrowed so deeply into his bones he might as well be star-crossed has only thickened.  Sometimes, he feels like he’s suffocating.

At first he had been apprehensive, having been busily squaring away deals and other contracts when she’d stopped by his office, alone.  The early evening light bathed her like an angel, and the hard press of her smile silenced the rose-tinted gaze he surely offered her.  She’d invited him to a lunch, as a means of thanks for everything he’d done for her. 

He accepted in less than a heartbeat.

And now he passes under the threshold of a quiet café in the heart of the city, seeing her brown hair curled into waves around her chin and shoulders.  Her legs are crossed beneath the table, feet adorned in delicate white sandals to reveal brightly painted toes.  She’s wearing a pastel jumper pocked with daisies, becoming of her new wealth yet somehow reflecting on her coveralls and oil stains, and there is a flurry of warmth that centers in his stomach and spreads into his lungs.

She looks up at him, smiling sweetly as her eyes trace the lines of him, head to toe and back.  He thinks he sees darkness, but when he blinks there’s nothing but her radiance, and he takes the seat opposite of her.

“You look beautiful,” he says at once, relishing in the flush of pink that blossoms beneath the light tan of her skin.

“Thank you,” Rey’s voice is a quiet song, and even here in this public space with the clamor of others, the afternoon light, the white and simple compared to the black and erotic, he still stares at her throat, the subtle curves modestly dressed, can still feel her beneath his hands—

She clears her throat; he blinks, and his ears burn beneath his hair.

“My apologies,” he offers, tilting his head a little to avoid her gaze.  Her hands are folded on the table, and he has half a mind to reach for them.  “Our arrangement follows me still.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says, and he glances up to see a coy smile on her face.  Her eyes, however, are dark and hard, reading like a warning. 

He offers her a pull of the mouth, smirking in the warm light.  “What about you?  Do you still think of it?  That night?”

“How could I not?  I shared just as much in that experience as you did.”  Her words are delicately structured, and Ren’s smile widens.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

He swallows, wrinkling his nose some before leaning back in his chair.  He drags his own hands to his lap, quieting his selfish twitching, even as his mouth runs.  “Does your husband know, then?  Surely he suspects… a quiet lunch, just the two of us—it’s bound to raise a few questions.”

“It was his idea,” Rey tells him, raising a brow, and Ren chokes quietly on his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” he admits after a long moment, shaking his head.  There’s an erratic pulsing between his brows, and he suddenly feels exhausted.  “That was rude of me.”

“Yes, it was,” the words are cold, but her tone is far from such.  “But I forgive you.”

The tingling fades up into the tips of his ears, and Ren feels more like a child than a grown man operating a prestigious company.  Before him, Rey is the epitome of maturity, every line and curve of her composed with grace.  And he thinks that she must, truly, be perfect, and so well-organized.  If nothing, she leaves him inferior in her resolve.

Clenching his jaw, he looks to her slowly.  _It was his idea_.  Something shifts and twists in his gut and there’s a sour bite in his throat that pours acid over his tongue.  Her freckles are constellations that he sees so often in his dreams it’s almost painful to see her in the light like this.  She’s across a table and within reach but so far from him that he almost—

No.  _Stop_.

“What made him suggest it?”  Ren asks carefully, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.  Rey watches him, taking a moment to let his question hang in the air before sliding her own hands from the table.

“He’s asked about that night,” she says at last, and Ren tastes his own heartbeat amid the bitterness.  “What transpired, how I feel, what the future holds.  He’s stubborn, and kind, but he is not without his faults and his own demons.  He worries, and he envies something he’ll never understand.  He wants to trust you.  He wants to believe what you’re doing for us is well-intended, without motivation.  And he knows that, if he were here with me, or even in my place, you would put on a show.”

Ren swallows thickly, biting his tongue.

“You know it’s true,” she finishes, and it’s a whisper that hovers in the air like a cloud filling the void between them.  The tether that thrums, shimmering as the sun reflects off of a passing car through the café windows, seems to burn his center.

“You asked that I never mention anything to him,” Ren concedes, looking to her through a curtain of his black bangs.  “Putting on a show just extends that promise, I’d think.  Let him have that safety net.”

“Men let their imaginations run rampant, regardless of what’s real,” the words are old on her youthful voice, and Ren forces back a bitter mouthful of shame.  “I appreciate you keeping your word and being cordial.  No, I have not told him, even when he asks.  There are some events in my life I would feel more comfortable keeping private.  Regardless… you let our affair get the better of you, and it shows.”

Frowning, Ren breathes deeply around the bile that's creeping into his throat, burning the walls.  “How so?”

“The way you look at me.  The favors you've pulled.  Calling me in the middle of the night—don’t pretend that was an accident.  If these don’t slip my notice, I know for a fact they're obvious to others.  I am flattered and grateful, and in your debt once more to the charity you’ve provided us.  But it needs to stop, Kylo.”

He thinks he hears her hesitate somewhere, but the pounding in his head, beneath his skin, the pulsing of war drums that resonates so violently in his bones he wants to scream silences such ideas.  For a moment the edges of the world spin and lose focus, dull into wafts of greying light that smell like salt.  Beneath the table, his hands twist and gnarl together in a vice that cracks his knuckles, nails biting into palms until red crescents threaten to split and splice.

There's a mantra he’s learned to cling to since their affair, one that beats nearly in time with his own heart, thumping behind his eyes and in the depths of his core.  He lets it surface and linger whenever he thinks of her, of that night, and the way he felt something change in his very existence, as though he'd at last become properly aligned.  Because he remembers watching her go, and feeling indescribably strange and new all at once.

Those feelings and words fester, twisting and burning between his lungs as the silence hangs between them.  _She isn't yours._

In another breath, he swallows and straightens.  He envisions the brick, and steel, cementing it over the thrumming in his soul.  There's a burial in the dark that must be done to preserve the white hot flare he dares not acknowledge.  It's quiet, and cold, now, and Rey’s eyes narrow quickly in this second after, even as he offers her a soft, reserved smile.

“There's no debt, Rey.  As for your request, consider it done.”

 

* * *

 

They don't speak for at least another week after that.  He chocks it up to the surge of business.  He tells himself that such an excuse is reasonable, even if the acid in his throat rejects it.

 

* * *

 

He’s just set aside the folders when the door to his office swings open, Phasma leading the way for Rey and her husband to enter.  He feels the corners of his mouth pull, and he hides his smile behind a slow drink from his mug before placing it back beneath the curve of his monitor.  Swallowing slowly, he smooths his tie back into place.

“Will you be requiring any other files, sir?”  Phasma asks, her head and shoulders towering over the other two standing occupants of his office.

“No, thank you.  That will be all, Phasma.”

Her blonde head bows, and she disappears at once.  It’s at this time, as Rey and her husband are dragging their chairs from the tucked space of the front of his desk, that Ren becomes aware of a three-foot gap between their shoulders.

With silence so thick he thinks he sees a wall, Ren glances between the two, finding matched sets of clenched jaws and reserved eyes. 

“Good morning,” Ren says, blinking once as they both look to him.  There’s a quick glance that’s shared, but only a hum in response.

Beneath the fabric of his shirt and jacket, Ren feels the cool twist of distress bloom between his lungs, and when he spares a look to Rey, he finds shadows under her eyes.

“Well,” he continues, swallowing thickly.  “Six months.  You’re over the first hill, and doing quite wonderfully.  Sales and customer reports are excellent; the extra costs have been covered.  You’re projected to make considerable profits for the next six months, and beyond.”

There’s another wave of quiet, and Ren lets out a breath. 

“What this means is another choice: you can continue to consult with me on business etiquette and for shop maintenance, or you can leave the nest, as it were.  Our business relationship will have extra distance, and provide you with a little more freedom and responsibility.”

“Wonderful,” Ren does his best to swallow the sigh as her husband speaks first.  Three syllables perfectly clipped and cold, and Ren turns to regard him slowly.  “We appreciate your time and effort, but I think it’s also time for us to operate on our own.”

“I disagree,” Rey’s voice is hard, the broken-glass edges hissing in the air.  “I think we would do well with more guidance, to ensure we’re on the right track.  A lot can change in the first year, not just the first six months.”

“And I said we’d be _fine_.  We have the means, and we have the customer base.  We don’t need any more hand-holding.” 

Rey shakes her head, sighing deeply, her fingers rubbing and pressing to her temple.  There’s a trembling against his thigh, and Ren stretches his fingers to relieve the skittering. 

“He’s not doing all of our work for us, he’s making sure we’re doing things right.  He’s a supervisor, not a damn parent.”

Her husband scoffs, nostrils flaring.

“Supervisor.  _Sure_.”

Rey lifts her head, eyes hot and wild, with an intent to bark and spit, to fight.  Fire licks the insides of Ren’s chest, and he has half a mind to let her bare her teeth and roar.  But for the swell in her pride, Rey seems to breathe and closer her eyes instead, letting the animal growl and turn away instead.  It’s unbecoming of her, given the months he’s seen her take whatever she wanted.

Clenching his jaw, Ren clears his throat, and both pairs of eyes focus on him.  One is cold, the other is just… tired.

“If I may,” he breathes, looking less at him and more at Rey, “we do not have to reach a decision about this now.  Clearly there is something the two of you need to discuss regarding the future of your business development, and that is a choice that shouldn’t be influenced by me.”

Were he to consider his own words carefully, Ren might have found that he alluded to more than just their business.  But there was a heaviness in the air that took precedence to critical thinking, and if they were going to fight, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of it.

“What would you suggest?” 

Inhaling slowly, Ren glances at Rey, whose inquisitive eyes are equally shielded, and his bones ache at her insistence of being so shut-off.  Beside her, her husband rolls his eyes, hands knotting themselves together.

“Were I you,” he begins, pursing his mouth.  “I would see the year out.  You’re not wrong to have concerns about changing tides—businesses are vulnerable in the first year of operation.  The fiscal year-end, and audit season, are the most crucial to determine longevity.  I can save you time through the technicalities, allowing you more of an opportunity to actually _work_ , and not number crunch.  Beyond that, you should be able to have an idea of how to proceed without me.”

Rey looks to her husband again, the tension flooding the space of Ren’s office until he feels it tickling his jaw, sinking into his ears, as though at any moment it would overwhelm them all and drown them.

Pulling lightly at his tie again, Ren tangles its end between his fingers as her husband glances back to her as well, a twitch rising in his temple for a handful of moments before the clench in his posture relaxes.  The man sighs, waving his hands quickly in front of himself before standing abruptly.

“Do what you want,” he says, before turning and storming from the office.  In her seat, Rey sighs, though the resignation only lasts as long as a heartbeat before something like apathy crosses her face.

“What was that all about?”  Ren asks, raising a brow at her.  She doesn’t say anything, shaking her head briefly.

“Rey,” he presses, tilting his head as though to look more carefully at her. 

“He’s stubborn, I told you that.”

“Are you all right?”  The words are soft, and something flirts at her mouth like a smile, but the exhaustion between her brows makes it weak.

“We fought last night, that’s all.  I’m fine.  He’s just— _stubborn_.”

“So you continue to say.”

The look she gives him is hard and iced, but it softens when he holds her there, and her mouth opens in a sigh as her shoulders drop. 

“What would you like to do?”  He asks.

“I would like to stay on.  I see the benefit in working with you, having your guidance.  He doesn’t.”

“What does he see, instead?”

“You know what he sees.”

Ren’s mouth forms a thin line as his gaze drops to the mangled end of his tie.  He fumbles with it, stuffing it back beneath the buttons of his coat. 

“Would it be better for me to not be involved?”

“Personally?  Probably, but there is no avoiding that if we continue to work together.  As far as the best chance for our shop is involved?  No.  He doesn’t want to admit to it, but you have done us good.  And if he would get off his ridiculous high-horse, it’d be easier.  But that’s who he is, and I respect him and what we’ve built despite that.”

Ren lets out a chuckle, lips forming a wry smile.  “Glad you can.”

He glances up, seeing the corner of her mouth pull up, even as she clenches her jaw and tries not to smile.  He breathes, the ache between his lungs releasing as he sinks back into his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, almost surprised by himself as the words leave him.  Rey frowns, shaking her head.

“What for?”

“For everything.  I let my selfishness interrupt you and your life.”

“Do you regret it?”  She asks, and he blinks.

“No.  Never.”

“Then don’t apologize.”  With that, Rey stands slowly, reaching for her purse.  Watching her, Ren moves to speak, to reach for her, but he’s rooted and chained to his seat.  His eyes follow the lines of her body, the way her hair hangs in loose waves around her shoulders.

“Do you?”  He finally chokes out.  She stops, smiling more in eye than mouth.

“Of course not.”

 

* * *

 

In all manner of speaking, the benefit is the absolute last place Ren desires to be on a cool Friday evening after the week he’s had.  As though dealing with two-faced partners and money-grubbing insurers isn’t already hard enough, having to spend several hours in the company of those same people with ten times the vanity and ego is even worse.  The greatest difference in the language and presence is only the price tag of the suit.

Still, it is First Order’s largest banquet of the year next to the annual holiday fundraiser; since both Hux and Snoke are somewhere on the floor, Ren takes a small victory in knowing that he doesn’t have to up the ante of charm or glamorous pretenses quite as heavily as he has in the past.  But he does keep a pleasant smile on his face as often as he can, for there are other matters he’s attending to tonight than technicality.

Sweeping across the floor, he pushes his hair back with nimble fingers, his opposite hand snatching up a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.  Thousand dollar plates and glasses are being passed between hundred-thousand dollar patrons in silk dresses and suits, the shimmer of diamonds color-coordinated with cufflinks under the right light. 

He is perhaps the plainest, dressed in his nicest suit—a fraction of the price of some of others he sees—with a rich, royal purple tie tucked neatly in place.  His shoes are worn and comfortable, allowing him to glide with ease passed those who make faces and shift from one leg to another before seeking out chairs and couches to fall upon.  Sipping from his flute, Ren glances toward the entrance, his smile widening until the glass clinks against his teeth.

Rey enters with her husband on her arm, dressed in a sheer, sleeveless black dress donned with dozens of deep purple roses, the form hugging close before flowing more freely past her hips and billowing around her legs.  Her hair is twisted up and pulled off her neck, her smile bright and radiant beneath the light of overhead crystal chandeliers. 

Keeping his distance, Ren watches her be greeted by others from First Order—those she has had the pleasure of meeting previously, and those who are new to her.  The elegance in her posture, coupled with the delight in her eyes, settles into his soul, and he swallows a swell of something that tastes like fruit.  He cannot hide the smile, or the affection he feels, and turns away to finish drinking his champagne.

Staying true to his promise is difficult enough, but she fits easily into this world of his that he often begs to understand why she would remain with someone so callous and unwilling to change or grow.  Finding another flute, he takes a smaller sip from this to quiet himself, a shift in his atmosphere leaving him with the image of her in his subconscious, and he knows she’s moved through the crowd before he turns to see it happen.

She and her husband slip and sneak through the masses before her eyes find his, and the path she cuts parts like a sea.  Ren tastes his heart beneath the bubble, but he offers her a smile.

“Glad you could make it,” he tells them as they near.  Rey is full of smiles as her eyes wander the hall, light reflecting in their depths.

“You said this would be an opportunity for us, so we couldn’t miss it,” the words are honest, if not flat, and Ren glances to the man on her arm.  Dressed simply in a black tux with a pressed white shirt and a black tie, her husband looks tired and displeased, avoiding the gazes of most everyone around.

“I did,” Ren continues, passing his flute from right to left before gesturing across the floor.  “There’s someone I want you to meet, actually.  I believe she’ll be able to provide you some different insight than I could.  She’s been an entrepreneur for, perhaps, longer than I’ve been alive, and knows the ins-and-outs of just about every facet of business imaginable.”

He thinks he hears some snide comment about how they should’ve been introduced to this woman first, and elects to ignore it.

On the other side of the hall, Maz Kanata sits surrounded by young, budding, and fresh faces in silk suits, each and every one of them vying for her attention the first opportunity they can.  Her wrinkled, sun-soaked face is hidden mostly behind large, thick-rimmed glasses that seem to magnify her eyes three times their size, the depths of her brown gaze endless in its wisdom.  Unlike the rest, Maz is dressed simply in maroon dyed, cotton-threaded trousers and a rich blue tunic, her customary black quilted vest hanging loosely from her nimble shoulders.  The top of her head is wrapped in a cool black scarf, hiding her small ears.

For a woman of her age and stature, Maz seems to know and see everything, and even with a throng of people still blocking their path, Ren can see her head turn, eyes wide behind her spectacles as she calls out over the crowd.  “Solo!”

He resists the urge to cringe as the masses part.  Feeling eyes on him, he turns to offer a small smile to Rey and her husband.  “Family name,” he explains, swallowing some before looking back toward the massive table.

“Maz Kanata,” he replies, walking forward.  “I have a few friends I’d like you to meet.”

“All these years, and you think you can waltz in like this, boy?”  If not for the gleam in her eye, Ren might have cowered before her.  But he smiles, reaching across the table to take her hand in his.  Her smooth thumb runs along the backs of his knuckles, her palm gently squeezing his fingers.  “It’s not right to be such a stranger.”

“My apologies,” he tells her, soft and with a tender smile.  Maz chuckles, shaking her head some, the light overhead glimmering off her glasses.

“Who are these friends, then?”

He turns, but Rey has already come to his side, her husband in tow.  There’s a smile on her face, and Maz reaches for her hand at once.  Names are exchanged, and Maz hums quietly as she nods her head, listening to an abbreviated rendition of circumstances that led them to this meeting.  Keeping his hands folded together, Ren gives passing glances to Rey, and to Maz, listening intently.

“Come, dear child, take a seat.  You too, boy,” Maz says first to Rey, and then her husband.  They oblige at once, with Ren lingering a moment longer before giving a parting word to Maz that he’ll leave them to it.  With one last look to Rey, he turns and wanders back into crowd, oblivious to the knowing look Maz burns into the back of his head.

He might have thought that mingling would have been easier without Rey at his side, but he finds himself distracted.  Only half-hearing recent contributions and upcoming business proposals, Ren weaves in and out from tables and circles, easing himself into a third glass of champagne and feeling the edges beginning to tip in and out of focus.  What remains constant is the way the purple contrasts beautifully to her skin, the loose twist of her hair that somehow stays absolutely perfect, the fact that her pearls are still at his home and she hasn’t asked him yet about them.

For all his struggles, he does have a perpetual smile on his face, and doesn’t notice the massive clock on the wall tick from one hour to the next.  He hasn’t seen hide or hair of Hux or Snoke, and, quite frankly, he can’t bring himself to care.  The space of the dining hall feels warm and full, bustling with voices and laughter from one corner to the next, but hers rings the loudest of all.

Switching his champagne for water, Ren goes to a quiet wall and leans against it, breathing slowly as he eases the knot of his tie a little looser.  There’s sweat in his hairline, and his feet bear a slight ache in the arch from the constant walking.  And when he looks towards Maz’s table, Rey is still there, the two nearly head to head in quiet discourse.  Her eyes are focused, her eagerness drinking in every word from Maz’s tongue, and he feels that familiar spirit of pride and admiration.  He adores her, and her tenacity to learn.

What he does not see—or, rather, who—is her husband.  And while Ren couldn’t bring himself to care less for the man, his absence from a conversation that could benefit him as much as his wife is strange.  Frowning behind the rim of his glass, he scans the floor, looking for the plain face and desolate eyes that he’s come to associate with him. 

In fairness there are plenty of such faces, many of which are also tired, worn down with wrinkled, rouged cheeks.  Drinking slowly, Ren turns his attention toward the massive bar down at the far end beneath an elaborate velvet proscenium, its only occupants being the tenders, and Rey’s husband.

Setting his empty cup aside, he pushes away from the wall, slipping between other patrons as he nears the bar.  Laid out on its mahogany surface is an empty shot glass and a lowball with a mouthful of deep honey and amber.  He watches the man knock back with a wince, waving down the tender for another, and Ren sighs deeply.

Coming up to his side, Ren slides his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the bar top with his eyes on the benefit.

“What do you want?”  The words are low, slurred along the edges, and Ren bites his tongue briefly.

“What are you doing?”  He retorts, clenching his jaw, catching the man’s half-lidded glare from the corner of his eye.

“What’s it look like?”

“And how many have you had?”

“Does it matter?”  Ren rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“Is that wise?  Shouldn’t you be with your wife?”  The question is sour on his tongue, his fingers twitching his in pockets.  The man snorts, taking another heavy drink from his glass.

“Your friend seemed more interested in talking to Rey alone than both of us.  Never mind that the whole shop and everything is _ours_.  But no, Rey gets the information.  Rey gets the praise, the congratulations for everything, the final decisions—”

“Are you _really_ doing this?”  Ren cuts in, turning to face him.  Ignored by another drink, the man wipes the back of his hand against his mouth, before tapping the lowball against the counter.  Another.  “Perhaps if you shared in her vision, you wouldn’t feel so left out.”

“And what would _you_ know of what she wants?”  The man spits, wheeling on him.  He goes to stand, to get into Ren’s face, but his knees are weak and slopping, and he fumbles on the stool instead.  “What else does she tell you that she doesn’t tell me?”

“Nothing,” Ren says.  Much as it burns his core, it’s true.  “I’m just a business partner.  You’re her husband.  And you’re doing her, and everything you’ve built, a disservice by being over here, getting drunk and feeling sorry for yourself, than being with her.  Maz is not a woman to offer many second chances.  Disappoint her now, and you’ll ruin everything.  Is that what _you_ want?”

“Since when would _you_ fucking care?  You’ve done all this for her, anyway.  You’ve always done this for her.  Don’t fucking deny it—I see the way you look at her.  Paid me off to have your fucking way with her, giving her everything she wants.  You think you can buy her?”

“Never,” it leaves him immediately, heat flushing across his face and over his ears beneath his hair.  “Look, I gave you _both_ a new start after _you_ squandered your chances to make it on your own.  Don’t blame me for upholding my end of our proposal—I said I would get your shop anything and everything you two wanted, and I’ve done that.  Just because Rey’s been the one to take advantage of that offer does not mean I’ve kept you from that opportunity.”

“Fuck off,” spit hits his face, and Ren breathes deeply.  When he goes to raise his glass to call for the tender again, Ren reaches out and palms the rim, slamming it back against the table. 

“You’ve had enough.  Go be with your wife, and ensure that you don’t compromise your future again.”

He makes to turn and leave, and just as before, so long ago, does a hand come and snake around his arm.  This time, the vice, though trembling, shows no sign of weakening any time soon.

“Do you love her?”

Ice runs through his veins, and Ren refuses to look at him.  Blood drains and rushes at once, his heart coming to the hollow of his throat.  The grip on his arm tightens, and he fights the urge to wince beneath the fingers that are digging into the sleeve.

“Do you?”

Swallowing, Ren glances back at him.

“Does it matter?”

Wide eyed and chattering, the man blinks back what Ren can only assume are tears.  Pulling from his grip, Ren chokes back something that threatens to rip from him like a scream, dipping his head before stomping across the floor.  His suit feels three sizes too small, the tie at his throat cinching into his skin.  The sweat that had dotted his hairline now beads fully, trailing its way down his skin.

The thudding of his heart in his ears stampedes and drowns the sound of everything else, and he slips out into the narrow hallway beyond the massive doors.  The air is cooler here, low lighting casting shadows up the vaulted ceilings.  Wiping at his brow, Ren is practically gasping as he makes his way to the next set of doors that will lead outside.

Faltering instead at the threshold, his hands shake against the door handles.  His breath plumes and fogs against the glass, and he rests his head on the cool metal frame.  Letting his eyes slip shut, he tries calm the pounding between his ears, the ringing beneath the surface of his skin that sinks and stings in his bones.  But with each breath it just gets worse, louder, harder to concentrate on anything that isn’t _Do you love her_? 

Because the answer is yes.  Yes, of course.

Behind him, heels clack against the floor, and a smaller hand touches his shoulder.

“What?”  He wheels around, stopping at once as Rey’s eyes widen.  She falters back a step, dropping her hand.

“What happened?”  She asks, her eyes searching his face.  He opens his mouth to speak, but only air passes his teeth, and he shakes his head to avoid her gaze.  She waits, staring, lips pursed into a thin line, but the pulse of his heart suffocates any chances he has of explaining himself.

And it’s there again, thrumming in time with his heart, shimmering under the evening light and the candles of the hall.  A tether from his center to hers, glimmering like smoke, grey as the dawn of the sea.  She frowns, her hand coming to him, touching his chest, her lips forming his name.  Her fingers rest over where his heart beats the song of their souls.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, shaking his head.  He feels weak, exhausted, and so very naïve all over.  “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever you’re apologizing for, don’t.  Just talk to me,” she begs, and for now he hates the sound.  He hates how calm she is, how her collected tone soothes the fissures in his soul from wanting her so badly.  He shakes his head again, biting the inside of his cheek.  “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.  It’s not what he said.”

“Was it something you said?”

Looking to her, he swallows slowly, breathing as deeply as his stuttering body will allow.  Her eyes waver between his, softening slowly, her fingers relaxing against his chest until her palm is flat to him. 

“Kylo…”

Clenching his jaw, his palms come to her face, cupping her gingerly as he leans in and kisses her.  And she doesn’t pull away, reserving herself only for a moment before her mouth presses back to his.  She tastes like champagne, the memory of wine and unspoken secrets.  She is divine, and something in him finally breathes a sigh of relief amidst the months of screaming.

It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong.  He knows her husband is tearing himself apart in the next room over a not-quite confession and too much to drink.  He knows that he’s going against what she asked of him—to stop with his advances, to stop making his affection known.  He knows he’s taking all of that, wadding it up, and kicking it into a trash pit, but he _doesn’t care_.  Because for the first time in over seven months, he’s kissing her again, and she tastes just as fucking divine as he remembers.

He wants to stay, wants to linger, wants to tell her everything and anything she could ever want to hear.  Because everything else tonight has felt half-true; he has done most everything for her, always for her.  Because he took a chance for a single night, and his existence has since begged for an eternity.  He remembers kissing her, feeling her trembling hands against his chest.  He had pictured summer and something that could have lasted forever, and has been clawing for that dream ever since.

And it’s so damn _unfair_.

Pulling away, he presses their foreheads together, fighting the sting of tears.  His fingers caress her cheeks, and she ghosts another kiss against his bottom lip, reaching and quietly pressing for more.  The moan that leaves him is exasperated, dying and weak.  Her hand is still over his heart, claimed. 

“I should go,” he tells her.

She’s trembling in his hold, breathless, and he kisses the corner of her mouth, knowing that if he presses fully to her again he won’t leave.  Even then, this faint edge of her is almost enough to tip him into a madness that he can’t refuse.  He thinks he hears her whisper, but whatever it might be falls flat to the ringing that picks up once more. 

Pulling away, he holds her hands, leaving kisses on her fingers and palms.  She says his name, but he refuses to look her in the eye.  He kisses her palm again, staying for just a second longer.  But then he’s turning and walking through the door into the late summer night.

 

* * *

 

He ignores three calls from her that night, unable to bring himself to answer.  It’s selfish, petty, and cruel, and her voicemails only cut deeper into his bones.

Instead, he curls up with her pearls weaved between his fingers over the steady drumming of his heart, and watches rain pelt the glass of his window, blurring the city lights.

 

* * *

 

It’s a grey, late summer morning when he drags himself to the office, simply dressed in slacks, a button up, and a light blazer.  His hair is unkempt, the shadow of stubble gracing his jaw and throat.  He feels as though he’s traversed to hell and back, yet manages to make the climb into the office.  Stumbling to the elevator, he leans against the cool aluminum wall as it rises to his floor, his eyes sliding shut to the fluorescent light.

Listening to the pulleys and the gears, Ren breathes through the aches and tension in his muscles and bones, letting his head roll back and forth along the wall.  Restless nights that have often been filled with dreams have brought him to a sense of vacancy, and he’s not sure which he dislikes more.

When it dings, he pushes off, breathing slowly to the rhythm of his steps, his shoes clicking lightly off the hard wood flooring.  There’s a heavy mist beyond the windows, blanketing the city.  The grey overcast is quiet and calm, if not marginally dismal, and Ren stops by a small cart with a coffee pot and paper cups.  He pours it black, adding in a small packet of sugar, before continuing his path passed Phasma’s desk.

“Good morning,” he tells her, and she raises her blonde head at once.

“Morning, sir.  You have a message from Snoke, and you have a visitor in your office.”

Frowning, he glances back at her.  “I wasn’t aware I had any meetings this morning?”

“You don’t.”  Phasma says, and though her expression remains slack and cool, he sees a glimmer in her bright blue eyes.

Turning from her, Ren rounds the corner, seeing through the glass doors of his office that Rey is standing near his window behind his desk, her back to him.  Taking a tentative sip from his cup, he twists the door handle and slips inside, letting it swing shut behind him.  She does not turn around.

Seeing her again refreshes the taste of her on his tongue, and his heart stuffs itself into the back of his mouth.

“Morning,” he says after a moment, setting the cup aside to strip his blazer and let it hang off the peg near the door.  “I hope I didn’t keep you too long?”

“No,” her voice is quiet, weary, but there’s a warmth there that sinks deeper than the coffee he reaches for, and he steps slowly toward her.  “I just got here, actually.  I wanted to talk to you about that offer?  For more guidance.”

“Are you not planning on using Maz?”  He asks, drinking slowly from the cup again before setting it down by his computer.  Rey still has not turned toward him, her gaze fixed on the city beyond the windows of his office.  It’s cold and grey between the city’s infrastructure, the clouds shielding passing cars and buses below.  Where there is often a quiet hum, only silence reverberates back.

Rey is silent for a few moments, and Ren takes the reprieve to drink her in, starved as he always is.  Her hair is pulled back into a high, semi-neat bun, with a few wisps hanging free and loose from the knot.  She’s dressed in deep grey trousers and a light sweater that drapes from her shoulders, exposing the line of her neck and throat, the freckles along her back.  Her hands are folded together in front of her, and he walks round to come to her side. 

“She’s wise, but we talked, and she suggested that I would be better with the guidance I’m being given,” she turns and looks to him, and he sees the fatigue etched into the corners of her eyes, the heavy shadows almost like bruises.  His own shoulders slump some, drained, and he lets out a sigh.

“She would say something like that,” he offers her a smile.  There’s a ghost of one at the edge of her mouth, but it doesn’t last, and she shifts her gaze back to the port.  “I’m surprised though.  She’s usually quite willing to take on prospective partners.”

“Maybe in the future,” Rey breathes, rolling her shoulders some before glancing at him from the corner of her eye.  “She said we’ll stay in touch, but that I’m better with you.”

Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, Ren smiles some, keeping her gaze for only a moment before looking away.  Leave it to Maz to be just as cryptic and blunt all at once.

“I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls,” he tells her, sighing quietly.

“I understand.  It was… a difficult circumstance.”

“Doesn’t make it right to ignore you.”

“No,” she chuckles, “but I don’t blame you.”

He lets out another breath, shoving his hands into his pockets.  Dipping his head, he stares at the floor beneath his shoes.  “And your husband?  I imagine he must think _so_ highly of me.”

“His opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Frowning, Ren lifts his head to regard her slowly.  Behind the exhaustion at the corners of her eyes, there is something that is both resigned and relieved.  Raising a brow, Ren opens his mouth to speak, but is silenced as Rey lifts her hand slowly, uncurling the fist he wasn’t aware she’d been clenching.

In her palm sits her husband’s wedding ring, glimmering in the grey light, with her own resting beside it.


End file.
